The Islands

In the winter, the wind whips through the plaza in front of the Brooklyn Museum in Prospect Heights, testing the tenacity of the thickest coats. But warmth is right across the street. The Islands may not look like much --- a cramped ground-floor kitchen, a metal staircase so steep you climb it with your hands, and a dark, dingy second-floor dining room populated by six tables and some flea-market paintings --- but the smells of the Caribbean wafting onto Washington Avenue makes you indifferent to appearances.

We followed our noses through the door half an hour after the posted opening, only to find the dining room still dark and prep work underway. Seeing the blue tint of our ears, the cook flipped on the lights and let us wait inside while they got ready. Though we could have probably flown to Jamaica in the time that passed before we ate, one bite melted our frigid weariness. The enormous portion of jerk chicken came with an oxtail broth that added great depth to the heat of the bird, while the curry shrimp, packed with herbs and spices, spoke vividly of the Indian influence in the region. We left full and toasty.